


to some distant century

by crescendi



Series: recrudescestuck [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Casteism | Hemophobia (minor), Childhood Friends, Drinking, Exposition, F/M, Hemospectrum, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Confessions, Nightmares, POV Second Person, POV Sollux Captor, Past Lives, Pining, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-08-28 00:31:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16713052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescendi/pseuds/crescendi
Summary: [repost bc i deleted it accidentally]As far as Sollux is concerned, Aradia is a goddess on earth. So who is he to deny her when she brings up a cemetery in Flordia?At the end of their road trip, she has news about the end of the world.





	1. way down deep where the shadows are heavy

**Author's Note:**

> guess who accidentally deleted this bc they were trying to edit the tags..

Aradia never cut her hair.

People could claim the hemospectrum was dead all they liked, but there was a reason why you’d rarely find any blueblood in customer service and no bronzeblood a CEO.

The traditions of old troll society still rang through the world. And according to traditional troll society, long hair was reserved for those of status, their quadrants, and sex workers.

Maybe if you didn’t like in troll-dominated Nowhere, Nebraska in 1977, it would be easier, but you’re not willing to move, not even when Karkat moved south to be with Dave, Vriska ran off to Europe for some highblood, leaving Aradia spadebroken, and Tavros moved out to California.

No, there was a reason why you haven’t moved to a place with more liberal views and she dragged you out to a convenience store in the middle of the night.

So here you are, with what might be the ugliest half-smile known to both human and trollkind on your face. The florescent lights of 10:21 7/11 turn Aradia into something ghostly, turning gray skin pale. The shadow she casts is larger than life, the loops of her horns stretching far above her head.

She’s barefoot, like always. She despises shoes, claiming they’re too restrictive. “Isn’t it better to feel the dirt underneath your feet than have those things on?” she’s said one day, shaking her head. A curl of hair fell into her face. “You couldn’t pay me to wear them all the time.”

Her dark hair swings behind her like a pendulum whenever she takes a step. She’s focused on the shelves, rust eyes narrowed in slight concentration.

She selects a bag of Chix Mix and turns to you with her too-wide smile and you psionically lift it out of her hands and float it up to where the rest of your groceries hang capsuled in a mess of flashing red and white and blue light above your heads. With a hum, she turns on a calloused heel and toward the register.

You trail behind her. Set your items on the counter. The cashier — human — blinks up at you, cloudy blue eyes switching between you and her before she starts to total up the cost of your items, one by one. Aradia captchalogues — you don’t want to say  _ groceries _ , you don’t know why you’re getting of the damn things, why would she need a shovel for Troll Christ’s sake — stuff and happily trots out. As always, you follow.

* * *

Her head rests warm against your thigh as you play Classic Empire, half-distracted by Aradia’s too-casual intimacy. She’s always like this, always too-familiar, always looking for a way to break boundaries and unspoken rules.

You have found you don’t mind.

The curtains are drawn, but the fading predusk light still filters through, casting the room in half-shadow.

“You know, I always wanted to visit Woodlawn Cemetery,” she says. “It’s in Florida, though.” She sighs, almost dreamy. “That which is so universal as death must be a blessing.”

“Did you come up with that?” you ask, sparing a glance down at her.

She’s facing upwards, studying, presumably, the cracks in the ceiling, horns just brushing your jeans, so light you can’t even feel it. “No. It’s inscribed on the gateway on the gateway of the cemetery. It’s why I want to visit it.”

“Oh.” You are silent for a long while. Aradia’s hair is spread under her like a pair of dark wings. One strand tickles the exposed skin above your ankle.

Quiet except for the digital noses of your game.

“I could take you,” you offer. “If you like.”

She rolls over. Pushes herself up onto her elbows. Looks at you with shining burgundy eyes. “You would?”

You swallow. Set the controller down. “‘Courthe I would.”

She laughs. Throws her arms around you.

You can never say no to her. You don’t know how.

* * *

The light from the noon sun is unusually gray and cool. Wind dodges around both of you, stirring Aradia’s hair and both of your clothing. Your car is parked at the edge of town. You and her are alone.

She hums, her usual tone, as she helps you out with the packing. You have a map spread out on the dash as you plan out your course. Biclops can take care of himself. Ramom can too, but she told a troll with blood just a shade cooler than hers to look after her just in case.

You push up your glasses after you drop the last of it in the trunk (Aradia’s modus is unreliable. Your sylladex is cluttered with half-finished projects you claim you’re going to finish one day). Push it closed. She’s smiling, wide and horrifying and lovely. She opens the shotgun door. Sits down, crossing her legs. She’s in a simple blue dress, too pale to be considered cerulean or indigo. From her ears dangle ruby earrings in the shape of her sign, a gift you and Tavros pooled money for months to get. You mirror her, feeling underdressed in your usual jeans and black shirt. You turn on the engine. The car rumbles to life. The radio plays  _ El Paso City _ . You drive eastward and south with a girl you are in love with next to you.

* * *

You stopped at a diner when it got dark, per Aradia’s request. A place called Casper’s, semi-cylindrical. Painted in bright, artificial colors. Posters cover almost every inch of the wall. Some Elton John song plays softly. You sit across from her in a booth, waiting for your order.

Aradia draws on the napkin, sketching out something on the sheer paper. From what you can see, it looks almost like a frog.

You content yourself with studying the grain of the table. It coils around itself in atypical ways.

As you drag your nail over its spirographical-like whorls, you realize the soft scratch of Aradia’s pencil has stopped. You raise your eyes to see her staring at you, soft and solemn and sorrowful. You open your both it — you’re not sure. Ask her what’s wrong. Say something funny. Comment on her sketch.

But before you can, a vanilla milkshake is set between you. “One vanilla milkshake,” she rattles off in a sing-song tone. She lists off the rest of your order and finishes with, “And one Pepsi!” She gives you both a wide, faux, customer-service mile and turns away, plate held at head level.

Aradia appears to return to her normal cheerfully gruesome self and digs in with gusto. A little more hesitant, you follow her example.

“Want some of my milkshake?” she offers. The blue of her dress is drowned out by the bright colors, making it look almost white.

“No thankth.”

She shrugs. Swings her legs under the table like a child; you can feel the rush of air on your shins.

“Didn’t know you drew,” you get out at last.

She drums her fingers on the glass of her milkshake. Fills the air with  _ tink tink tink. _ Looks contemplative. “It’s a new hobby,” she assures you. It feels like a lie, but you don’t press. Just take another sip of your soda. You pay when the check comes.

You leave, a step behind her.

There’s a purpleblood (is purple higher or lower than blue? You always forget.) loitering outside, with horns that upward and in. Almost twice your height. Sneers at you. “Ain’t he a bit too low for havin’ your hair that long?” Leans forward. You can feel faint red-and-blue sparks crackle across your horns. Fortunately (or maybe not-so fortunately) she’s focused on Aradia, rather than you. Your neck flushes mustard once you realize the implications of what she says.”Or is the pissblood pimpin’ you out? For how much?”

Lesser trolls would have crumbled under her gaze; you quickly are on your way. Fortunately, Aradia is not a lesser troll.

She just throws her head back. Laughs, a melody as clear as quartz. Twirls into your embrace, so your arms are around each other’s shoulders. Your legs and sides are against hers. You can feel every flutter of her breath against your ribs. Her hand is rested, casually, on the bone of your hip.

It surprises you, how easily your bodies slot together.

“Well,” you can hear her say. “why not both?”

The purpleblood snorts. Leans back and turns away.

By now, you are a blushing mess. Mercifully, Aradia does not comment.


	2. when everyone we know is six feet under

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there might be a slight shift in characterization bc here was when i didn't touch this fic for.. months (and also the plot changed) sorry!

It’s getting close to one in the morning. There are few cars on the road. The only light is from the moon, stars, and your headlights. It started raining lightly an hour ago. It hasn’t let up. Glittering pools reflect your car back at you.

You’re tired, but you want to push through the night. You’ve stayed up for longer stretches of time.

“Sollux.” Aradia’s voice drifts, silk-soft from the backseat. You nearly jump out of your skin.

“Thought you were athleep,” you mumble.

“You need to sleep too.”

You shake your head. “I can push through.” Add, softer, “goddammit.”

“Sollux.” Her voice turns chiding. “I don’t want to show up to West Palm Beach with you passed out in the front seat.”

“But — ”

“No buts! As soon as there’s a motel or a rest stop, pull over and we’ll check in together. Promise?”

“I — thure. I promith.”

* * *

You wake up to sunlight. The curtains are drawn back. Aradia hums her usual tune. You fumble for your glasses. Slide them onto your face. The Super 8 room’s once-peach paint is peeling and cracked. It smells like dust.

“We’re still in Missouri,” she tells you. “I got you waffles, but they’re not the best quality.”

“I’m going to shower,” you tell her, pulling yourself out of the diluted hotel sopor. Your dreams had been bright fractures of a burning red world and a seadweller with a white wand. The details are already fading.

The bathroom is shitty. It’s got shitty water pressure too, but you strip off your-soper encrusted clothes and step into it anyway. You stare down at the drain blankly as the water runs off your body. You scrub yourself — not with the soap, it looks like it would give you chemical burns. The water starts off comfortably warm, but soon turns ice-cold. You sigh. Step out. Pull down a thin towel. Wrap it around yourself.

Aradia is staring at the window when you emerge, leaning against it. A set of clothes are laid out for you. You realise she must have picked them out for you. You’re not sure how to feel about that.

It’s a very pale gesture. You aren’t pale for her. No, the quadrant you want her in not conciliatory.

She doesn’t acknowledge you. Stares out the window with the same expression she had at the diner last night.

You take the clothes. Retreat back into the bathroom.

It’s a pair of denim capris and a plain black t-shirt with the stitches yellow. Nice jacket with your sign on the collar.

You exit the bathroom wearing the outfit she picked out. Aradia seems back to normal with her wide smile in a red skater skirt and black crop top with her sign centered on it, stretched out on the faded pleather couch.

“We’ll leave after you eat,” she tells you. Again, more pale gestures. Now that you think about it, the past few days have been littered with diamond signs. You should stop her.

But then you think, since Aradia is always one for flouting tradition, maybe she doesn’t even think anything of it.

So you roll your eyes and say, “Fine, whatever. Delay your thtupid Florida deathlawnring vithit even more.” It’s got no bite to it. She just rolls her eyes, smiling. You eat the stupid waffle. It’s cold and gross and you tell her, “It’s cold and groth.”

She giggles.

* * *

You stop in a bleached-out town where most of the building look like they’re made of driftwood. The grass is withered. There are no trees to be found. The few bushes you can see are dead or dying. Tourist traps dot the side of the bumpy roads. You sit in the shotgun seat in front of a bookstore. Aradia said she wants to pick up something. You eat grubbread in the car as you wait for her.

You see her push open the door. She’s the only splotch of color, a crimson smear, it seems. She has a single book under her arm. Her hair falls down in waves on both sides of her face.

She pulls herself up in the driver’s site, and you lean forward to decipher the title. “Danth of the Post-Rapture, Book One: Limbo, by Nepeta Leijon,” you read aloud from the spine. The cover, partially covered by Aradia’s arm, is of a seadweller with mutant-red eyes staring down at a smaller human girl. They are embracing each other. Smoke coils around them. “Cool. I’ve never heard of Leijon.”

“She’s a new author,” she tells you as she starts the car up. “This is her debut novel.”

“What’th it about?”

She opens the front cover. Reads aloud, “‘In a world after the apocalypse, angels and demons run rampant. In order to protect themselves, a group of humans give Noreena to a demon known as Abduxiel. Noreena plans to escape as soon as possible, but finds herself growing closer to this demon and developing feelings as red as —’ ”

“Oh my Troll God, it’th a romanth novel!”

Aradia giggles. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think you were the type that liked to read  _ thothe _ .”

Aradia shrugs. Sets the book down. Starts driving. “I think it sounds interesting!”

You leave the pale-corpse town behind. Pine trees start to rise on either side of the road. Their needles turn from black to green the farther you get from the town. She rolls down the window. Breathes in deeply.

You study Aradia’s profile, the coils of her horns, how half of her face is thrown into shadow.

You think your luck is great, actually, but you spent it all already on knowing Aradia, Aradia knowing you, and then your friendship with Aradia.

* * *

The road is barren and yellow-turned-orange-and-brown with the fading sunset. Billboards, artificial and tall, advertising products you’ve never heard of, casting long shadows, are the only sign of civilization besides the road.

“We should get some sleep,” she says.

“Where? There won’t be another town for mileth.”

“We could just pull over.”

You remember your dream from last night. The thought of sleeping dry troubles you, but you don’t let it show.

“Another two more hourth,” you press. “Then we’ll thtop.”

Aradia sighs melodramatically. “If you insist.”

Two hours pass in silence from the both of you. The radio plays staticy songs you don’t recognize. There’s no discernable end or beginning to them. The billboards and the scenery stay the same. The only sign of the passage of time is the sun sliding downwards. It’s eerie. Aradia traces a pattern on the window mindlessly.

You pull over to the shoulder of the road. The sun’s light has been swallowed up. She clambers into the backseat. You offer her your jacket as a makeshift blanket. She takes it.

You stretch out across the front seat and wait for sleep to take you. It does not.

It feels like an small eternity of lying awake in the darkness when Aradia whispers, “I can’t sleep.”

“Do you want me to read to you?”

It appears to catch her off-guard. “Um, yes. That would be...nice.”

You sit up. Pick up  _ Dance of the Post-Rapture _ . Decaptchalogue a flashlight. Crack the spine. Clear your throat.

“The cold wind wrapped around Noreena, tothing her night-colored hair againtht her chin as she made the well-traced path back to camp…” you begin, squinting at the uniform letters through your glasses. Leijon, it seems, has a flair for the flowery.

Every once in a while, Aradia will make a comment, like “Oh!” or “Foreshadowing?” or “I don’t trust them.”

Some time during chapter six, when Noreen is formulating an escape plan, you find you cannot keep your eyes open and you’ve repeated the phrase, “The house wath only stocked with enough food for what a thingle…” what feels like twenty-two times, Aradia has been silent for a long while, you give yourself to sleep.


	3. for all to see

* * *

You wake up screaming. You can’t stop yourself. It’s an awful, ear splitting noise. You’re paralyzed by it. All of your energy channels itself into this awful shriek.

“Sollux,” you can vaguely hear. “Sollux!”

Aradia’s face swims into view. You still can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Sollux! It’s—three in the morning. You had a nightmare.”

Nightmare? No, you’re in hell. You died and you’re in hell. You feel hands on your face. You’re in hell. Dead. Why else would Aradia be here?

You take a deep gulp of air. Refill your lungs. You can hear Aradia start to say something, but you resume your siren.

You’re wrenched into a sitting position. A pair of eyes. Aradia’s eyes. It’s all you can see. Burgundy with adulthood. Burgundy with adulthood. Burgundy…

A moment of tension-thick silence, fractured only by the sounds of ragged breathing.

“A—” Gasp. Swallow. Blink. Shiver. “Aradia?” Your voice sounds hoarse and scared and jejune.

“Right. That’s me.” Her hands bunch up the fabric of your shirt. “I’m here, Sollux. I’m here.”

Her face is lit by the flashlight; you must have fallen asleep with it on. She looks scared and determined and concerned. You reach out clumsily. Feel her stomach, sides, arms. Warm. Here. Real. Not dead.

She’s on your lap, practically straddling you, still in the skater skirt, but there’s nothing romantic or hot about it. You were—you _are_ so _so_ scared.

You start to cry, diluted yellow pouring from your weepingcanals. Aradia pulls you into a hug. You bury your face into the dip of her neck. Wrap your arms around her. She starts to stroke your hair gently.

You and her sleep in a tangle of limbs, you on top of her.

In rare stroke up mercy, you do not dream.

* * *

 Proving to you yet again Aradia is a saint on Earth, she doesn’t mention your episode. Just turns on the radio. Starts driving. Asks, “Wanna play the alphabet game?”

“Sure.” A beat. “Agenda. On the billboard. And book. Oh, control.”

“You’re too good at this!” Aradia laughs. “Oh!! Oh, Dessen Defenders. Entire! Friday.”

It takes a while for you to find a G, but Aradia does— “Gene! And habit.” You let her have that last one, actually.

Slowly, the landscape shows more landmarks than just a scattering of billboards and road signs. Stores and farms and trees and fences and gas stations and homes start to reappear.

“I’m!” both of you say together. You look at each other and laugh.

You get up to R before she pulls over to get gas. You lean your head back. Kick up your feet on the dash. The early noon sun soaks into your skin. You are happy.

As she gets back into the car, you point up to the name of gas station. “Shell.”

She gasps in mock indignation and playfully slaps your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt as you poorly repress your triumphant smirk. “Captor, you absolute bastard.” You let out a snicker. Aradia’s face falls into her face as she shakes her head. Suppressed laughter shakes her shoulder. She’s smiling, morbidly huge. You’ve never seen anything as gorgeous. “You’re lucky you’re so pretty.”

* * *

Your impression of Florida is it’s as buggy as fuck.

You slap a mosquito and it becomes a smear of technicolor goo on your arm. Gross.

Aradia is in a black sundress with a wide-brimmed hat, also black. She’s wearing those ruby earrings again. She looks, for all the world, a mourner.

You’re dressed more appropriately, in cuffed jeans and white shirt with your sign.

You walk down the sidewalkless road to Woodlawn Cemetery. It isn’t tourist season, so that means fewer coldbloods. Aradia and you don’t attract much attention. You assume it’s an average day in Florida, but it’s still hot. The grass is light green. Flowers bob their heads gently at you.

The archway is stone. It’s inscription reads,

 

THAT WHICH IS SO UNIVERSAL AS DEATH

MUST BE A BLESSING

 

Aradia sighs, almost dreamy. She takes your hand, squeezes it once.

You walk together into the cemetery, side-by-side.

She decaptchalogues a picnic blanket and basket. She spreads the blanket on the ground and sets the basket down on top of it with her telekinesis. She sits, cross legged. She’s barefoot (of course she is).

You join her, sitting across from her with your feet tucked underneath you. “And what have you prepared for uth?” It’s laced with sarcasm.

She brings out a wine. “It’s a 1977,” she jokes. “Elderberry.”

It occurs to you how fucking weird you must look. You must look like you’re on a date.

You find you don’t give a shit.

She pours you a glass, then her. “A toast,” she says, with grandeur, raising her glass. “To death.”

You raise your glass as well. “To death.” You clink your glasses and drink.

“Can I be straight with you?” Aradia is wearing that solemn expression again.

The rich taste of the elderberry wine fades from your tongue. “Alwayth.”

Aradia runs her hand through the strands of her hair. “I have a few things to tell you,” she says slowly, carefully. “But I’m not sure in which order to tell them.” She takes in a breath. “Do you remember when I told you I could talk to ghosts?”

You tilt your head. “Yeth…?” Aradia had said it was joke. She doesn’t sound like she’s joking now.

“It wasn’t a joke.”

Oh goddammit.

“I can prove it,” she says quickly. Closes her eyes. Relaxes her shoulders. “Judith Whammy. A purpleblood. She died loyal to the Church. Buried here per the request of her moirail, an oliveblood names Honibb Trilius.” She reopens her eyes.

“Wow.” She stares, unblinking, expectant. “Yeah. Okay. I believe you.”

“The next thing I can’t prove but…” She hesitates. “We—This—Our—” She sighs. Pulls her knees to her chest. “It’s hard to explain,” she says at last. “But there have been other universes before this one. And each universe is both ended and created by this...game called SBURB. Or SGRUB. I’m not sure. Are you following?”

“Yeah.” You wet your lips. “And we have to play thith game?”

“No, we...already have. And we won. I think? No, we…”

Her faces twists. Without thinking, you take her hand in yours. “It’s fine. No rush.”

She smiles, thin-lipped. Toothless. Not genuine.

“I think we won, but something went wrong. So we did create a new universe, but we died and were reborn. Now others will play it.” She falls silent. Takes off her hat. Her hair floats and dances in the wind. It looks like dark ribbons. “We’ll be dead by then.” She sighs gustily. “A pity. I wanted to see the world end.”

Your head is spinning. But what Aradia’s saying all fits—somehow, this all makes sense, even though it shouldn’t. A game responsible for the creation and end of universes? Past lives? Grow the fuck up.

Yet, somehow, it feels right. It feels as if this us right, like the pieces of a puzzle coming together. Which would fit the past lives…

You study the checkered red-and-white pattern of the cloth. Stare at your legs. Chew on your lip.

“Sollux?”

She sounds scared. It shocks you. The only time you can remember her sounding scared was when Tavros had his...accident. (You’re still convinced Vriska pushed him, even if there was no concrete evidence.)

You meet her eyes. She chews on her lip (it’s one of those nervous tics one got from the other and neither of you can remember did it originally), eyes worried and face still solemn.

“I believe you,” you say, slow. “Not sure why. I mean—I shouldn’t—it’s fucking abthurd—” You shake your head. “But I do.” Aradia smiles genuinely again, that impossibly, terrifyingly, wide grin.

“The next thing is that I am in love with you.”

It absolutely floors you. If you had not been sitting, you would have fallen down. You’re pretty sure your face is a fine shade of daffodil by now.

“Um,” you manage. “Metoo. I. Love you. Too.”

It is the hardest thing you have ever had to say. This includes saying goodbye to Karkat.

Aradia laughs melodiously. She reaches out. Takes you hand. Kisses your knuckles. Cups your face in her hand. Asks, “May I?”

“You may,” you hear yourself say. She leans forward. It’s the easiest thing you have ever done. Her hand is warm against your cheek. Your hand sits through the hair at the base of her skull. The other rests on the small of her back. You smile like an idiot through it.

You pull back first. Confusion flits across her face. Before she can say anything, you say, “Sorry. I just realized we look fucking weird. Kissing in a graveyard.”

Aradia laughs. “I don’t give a shit.” Her hand moves from your cheek to the back of your neck and she pulls you in for another kiss. You taste elderberry on her tongue. You have red lipstick smeared across your lips. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. The two of you, together, are beautiful.

You drink the rest of the wine (she only brought the one bottle) and fall, tipsy, into each other's arms. You stay there all night, talking about how the universe might end and how neither of you knew the rules for sleeping in a cemetery and how seadwellers seemed to be genetically predicted toward being self-absorbed.

“Oh,” she breathes, arm cast over your ribs. “There was one last thing I wanted to tell you.”

“What ith it?” you ask, leg tossed over hers.

“Should I die before you, I don’t want to be buried. Take my body and leave it—I don’t know, in the woods somewhere. Where it can rot in peace.”

“Aradia,” you say, severe.

“Sollux,” she says, sweet.

“That’s fucking _macabre_ , even for you!”

She laughs and rolls over you. The upward curve of her horn strikes you and you grunt in pain. Apology comes in the form of a soft kiss where you were hit.

You sleep in the graveyard together. You dream about a floating in front of a green sun and silhouetted by it, a winged Aradia by your side. She says, “I think we were fated to rot it peace together.” Then she grows taller and her horns turn long and curved and tall and you are on a pirate ship and then everything dissolves into elderberry wine and vanilla milkshakes into the shape of a frog.

But you don’t nightmare.

You never do, in Aradia’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. it’s finished  
> some afterthoughts:  
> 1\. originally this was going to be a fic where it turned out aradia was dead all along, which may account for why sollux is sadder at the beginning  
> 2\. it was going to be a lot more focused on the hemospectrum and casteism. also eridan would be there  
> 3\. also, the nightmares were going to be more in-depth, but i scrapped that  
> 4.. skulls by bastille (the song the titles are from) is such an aradia song blease give it a listen

**Author's Note:**

> this is like 4 months old?? but yeah


End file.
